‘Nats go home’: Modernism, television and three BBC productions of

Ibsen (1971-1974)

In 1964 theatre journal Encore published ‘Nats go home’, a polemical

article by television screenwriter Troy Kennedy Martin. The manifesto for

dramatic techniques innovated at BBC Television in the 1960s subsequently

proved highly influential and is frequently cited in histories of British

television drama (Caughie 2000, Cooke 2003, Hill 2007). The article called

for the rejection of naturalism in television drama, and for new modernist

forms to be created in its place. Kennedy Martin identified ‘nat’ television

drama as deriving from nineteenth century theatrical traditions, complaining

that it looked “to Ibsen and Shaw for guidance” (23). This article examines

how Kennedy Martin’s argument represented the possibilities of naturalist

drama, investigating whether the modernist qualities in canonical

nineteenth-century naturalist plays that had agitated theatrical audiences

transferred to television production.

Kennedy Martin envisaged realist/ naturalistic forms of television drama

being replaced by more experimental modernist ones. This anticipated

development had close parallels with the modernist movement’s rise in the

early twentieth century, often characterised (and historically presented as)

breaking away from realist modes. This discussion is often marked by

scepticism about theatre’s suitability as a medium for modernist art,

repeated in turn by Kennedy Martin in relation to television drama. Parallels

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between rejections of naturalism by the early twentieth century modernist

movement and by Kennedy Martin in 1964 are explored in this article’s first

section. Section two examines three adaptations of Ibsen produced by the

BBC in the 1970s, investigating how their approach tallies with the

subjective characterisation, linear narrative and verbally-realised storytelling

Kennedy Martin saw as inherent to ‘nat’ television drama.

‘Nats go home’

 Kennedy Martin traced the roots of the dominant naturalist mode of

television drama in the 1960s to American “television theatre” of the 1950s

(1964, 21-2). Plays such as Marty (NBC 1953), comprised of heightened

psychological studies of characters under extreme stress, highlighted the

Stanislavskian method acting of performers trained at the Actors' Studio.

The strength of dialogue and performance attained in this movement’s best

works led to audiences forgetting their essentially theatrical form, Kennedy

Martin argued. Kennedy Martin distinguished British television plays as

more concerned with "didactic Marxist" social and economic conditions

than the "Freudian" psychological motivation of American plays, although

both approaches depended upon following dramaturgically determinist

views of characterisation deriving from "Shaw and Ibsen".

2

 According to Kennedy Martin, naturalist plays achieved their effects

through storytelling that gave primacy to the verbal over the visual;

characters’ interrelationships were achieved verbally; interior lives

(relationships with God or nature) were revealed through refraction of

verbal style; and abstract concepts (fear, hate, hope) could only be revealed

"indirectly" through symbolism or dialogue. This verbal concentration gave

precedence within plays to characters’ interpersonal relationships that risked

becoming "so strong that they overwhelm the original theme" (1964, 24).

Such prioritisation of words and characterization was inimical to original

television drama:

Despite what everyone may say to the contrary, naturalism is not a

visual form. The bulk of the dramatic information rests on the

dialogue and the visuals do nothing but supplement it. (1964, 27)i

Verbal narrative enslaved cameras into neutral two and three-shots of

speakers and listeners, gazing "around the room following the conversation

like an attentive stranger" (1964, 25). Concentration upon revelation of

character through speech led to a close-up form of drama, in writing,

direction and performance, that believed viewers’ emotions could be

engaged subjectively through close-up scrutiny of the face, an assumption

Kennedy Martin thought misguided and "on a direct collision course with

the objectivity of the camera" (1964, 25).

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 The naturalist play’s other major narrative limitation lay in reliance upon

stories told in linear time (1964, 24-5), leading to screen time wasted in

exposition and establishing relationships between characters (1964,

27), untelevisual retrospective dialogue (1964, 28) and, being unable to

jump between or distort time, a focus upon the present moment of drama,

encouraging "the myth of the live transmission producing a spontaneity in

the actor's performance, which is still held sacred in many quarters of

television" (1964, 29).

 In contrast to these perceived limitations Kennedy Martin advocated a new

form of television drama, founded upon freedom of mobility for the camera

and primacy of visual over verbal storytelling. Montage would enable

directors to manipulate linear time, allowing important momentary events to

occur in elongated duration, or perhaps reoccur from different perspectives

(1964, 28). This new drama, manipulated and reconstituted from the written

screenplay through editing and montage, would be "one hundred per cent a

director's medium" (1964, 32). Such cultural change could not occur

overnight, existing directors having grown accustomed to naturalist working

practices, "bogged down for years in their subservience to 'nat' photography

and have ceased to have real creative energy" (1964, 32).

Kennedy Martin considered television to be an inherently objective

medium that allowed drama audiences to observe behaviour rather than

enter inner lives, but that close-up intimate naturalist drama attempted to

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engage its audience subjectively.ii The television camera’s focus upon

whatever bodies or properties it covered was undiscriminating, making all

that it showed qualitatively equal (1964, 30).iii This tendency, especially

when combined with verbal narrative, led to drama that moved viewers’

imaginative responses along an objective “index of increasing interest”,

which rose through greater understanding of characters’ interrelation

through dialogue and plot machinations. Kennedy Martin considered such

drama to be less successful at inducing emotional responses, “where the aim

is to directly disturb the senses” (1964, 30). Through montage and

juxtaposition the new drama could create this agitating response: if the

camera made everything it showed qualitatively equal, then the best way to

provoke emotional responses was through “wild editing” of these images,

making viewers question the drama’s reality.

Television drama’s problematic subjectivity was seen (by Kennedy Martin)

as resulting from its derivation from other media. Character’s realisation

through language (either through dialogue or interior consciousness

revealed through symbolic and abstract speech) came from theatre. Kennedy

Martin saw this reliance upon language as wrong, because inherently

untelevisual. The style through which ‘nat’ television disseminated

theatrical reliance upon the spoken word had not evolved through the

specific form of the new medium itself, but been adopted from a Hollywood

cinema that attempted to give audiences subjective insight into characters’

feelings and concerns through the device of the close-up. Kennedy Martin

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saw this cinematic style as inappropriate for television: “The fact is that

outside of the area of the Hollywood square screen, this kind of subjectivity

cannot be obtained” (1964, 29).

The crucial difference between television and film conditions lay in the

television picture’s sharper (but more evenly distributed) focus, as distinct

from the film image. This focus gave television pictures a more clinical

quality, better suited to drama that could be interpreted objectively by its

audience. Creating a new drama that worked this objectivity to its favour,

dislocating images from naturalistic settings and presenting them as parts of

a non-linear story, would require rethinking television technology. This new

drama would require much greater concentration upon editing and post-

production, making a directorially-mediated and assembled art form, taking

primacy away from writer or actors (whose performances had been relayed

directly to the audience engendering an empathetic sense of spontaneity).

This emphasis upon the director would lead to a television drama that had

much less affinity to theatre than ‘nat’ drama had done.

Modernism, naturalism and theatre

  Kennedy Martin’s polarity between naturalist and new drama continues to

dominate discussion of British television drama from the 1960s to the

1980s, though the term 'naturalism' is often replaced by discussions of

6

realism, which has slightly different connotations of social realism and

documentary. Caughie (2000) defines two opposing movements as realists

and modernists, characterising Kennedy Martin's argument:

The 'nats' who are sent home by Troy Kennedy Martin are those who

are content to dramatize content; the directors of the new drama are

those who seek through objective form to dynamise and agitate the

subjectivity of the viewer. (107)

The idea of “content” (themes or ideas dramatized through verbal

communication of characters in linear time) is important to this history,

“Shaw and Ibsen” being bad models for television writers. More

impressionistic and abstract attempts to stimulate viewers’ feelings are the

domain of modernist new drama, with its leeway to manipulate time and

narrative. This view of television history that divides nats and non-nats into

opposing camps, presupposes that theatrical naturalism was in itself a

realist, and not a modernist, mode. This forms a reductive view of the

naturalist theatrical canon, realist works that contain elements of modernist

thought, strongly associated with the history of literary modernism.

 The view of television history that sees a naturalist/realist drama usurped

by more experimental modernism has clear parallels with literary and

theatrical history of the nineteenth and early twentieth century. Toril Moi

suggests that (because of his reputation as realist artist) Ibsen has been

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consistently undervalued by analysts of modernism and postmodernismiv,

seen as a figure at the creation of modernism rather than a modernist (2006,

1). This neglect is attributed to Ibsen having worked in theatre (a literary

form mistrusted by modernist academics because of its ties to mimeticism

and narrative), and his canonical late plays being written in a realist idiom,

(modernists perceiving realism as suspect).

Modernist writers and artists saw the playwright’s role as one of

compromised innovator, through their work’s mediation to audiences via

performers, “literally interpreted by actors whose techniques are normally

already established and therefore liable to mould the final product in

traditional ways” (Innes 1999, 131). Cinema directors have power to select

aspects of performance that chime with their artistic vision and edit

performances in a way that identifies films as their own interpretation, to a

degree unavailable to playwrights. It is this individual vision Kennedy

Martin aspired for the new television drama when he called for it to be “one

hundred per cent a director’s medium”, an impossibility when television

drama was produced in ways that privileged theatrical spontaneity of

performance and ‘liveness’ (1964, 32).

Kennedy Martin’s scepticism about television drama’s ability to create

subjective understanding of interior lives through close-up mirrors the

modernist movement’s scepticism about theatrical realisation of

consciousness. Christopher Innes identifies depiction of interior life as a

8

major concern of literary modernism (Proust, Joyce, Woolf) “where reality

is the subjective impression of the world, and art is an ‘impressionist’ record

of ‘stream of consciousness’” (1999, 138). The tendency within theatre at

the same time was an opposite one: towards exploration of character

through expressionism that saw character represented externally through

archetypes. Kennedy Martin’s new drama is closer to the expressionist

model, television cameras’ inevitable objectivity better suited to

representing character as seen than conveying interiority.

Diary of a Young Man (BBC TV, 1964), the television drama series co-

written by Kennedy Martin and John McGrath that followed the precepts of

‘Nats go home’, attempted expressionist characterisation through separation

of sound and vision, voice-over and placing characters in disparate scenes

and situations that switched abruptly from grim to farcical (Cooke 2003, 65-

6). This modernist approach provoked puzzlement, T. C. Worsley

complaining of jarringly inconsistent register in the programme’s dialogue,

with characters highly articulate in one scene but dull in the next (1970, 20).

For such critics, expectation of the naturalist primacy of dialogue was

automatically created through characters communicating by speech, creating

subjective understanding for listeners that required consistent register and

continuity with information established in previous scenes to create

successful, convincing drama.

9

Moi suggests that realist theatrical conventions privileged the spoken word

as primary means to convey narrative (as decried by Kennedy Martin), with

the modernist movement philosophically sceptical towards belief in

“reference”, language’s power to reflect reality: “If there is no guarantee

that language is reliably connected to the world, the sceptic asks, then how

can we trust anything put into words?” (Moi 2006, 23). Moi argues that

Ibsen’s use of the spoken word questions and confuses fixed philosophical

positions, giving his plays modernist self-awareness of their theatricality

beyond surface realism. This modernist self-reflexivity is achieved through

preoccupation with irony and scepticism (rooted in the continuing

importance of the idealist movement in the late nineteenth-century) and an

awareness of “theatricality” as an element within the worlds of the plays;

“theatre as an art form is embraced and acknowledged”, “antitheatricalism is

rejected”, “theatricality is criticised”, “self-theatricalisation in everyday life

is a central theme” (Moi, 2006, 10).

Ibsen’s “theatricality” does not occur through breaking conventions of the

fourth wall but his awareness of characters performing versions of

themselves for each other’s benefit and their own self-image via different

registers of speech. Different registers used between characters in The Wild

Duck present multiple subjective interpretations of reality according to each

character’s capability of dealing with everyday circumstances in the play’s

realist setting; Gregers makes idealized statements, Hjalmar presents

himself in self-dramatizing rhetorical “theatrical” language, Hedvig’s

10

comprehension of idealistic concepts is mediated through simple

uneducated vocabulary, whilst Gina’s speech is entirely prosaic, signifying

little comprehension of Gregers’ claims of the ideal (whilst keenly aware of

their possible destructive effect).

Unlike the more directorially-mediated film, theatre is experienced in actual

time in the same space by both actors and audience, making it difficult to

“avoid the taint of mimeticism and narrative” (Moi 2006, 27). Innes

explains why theatre has been problematic for modernism:

[T]heatre’s intrinsic connection to physical reality and social

existence (communicated at a minimum through the bodies of the

actors and their relationships to each other) make some of the key

modernist principles inapplicable. On the stage, art could neither

assert itself as an autonomous activity, independent of external

experience, nor aspire to pure form. In sharp contrast to the

modernist drive in poetry or painting, imitation was always present,

being the essential basis of acting. Simply presenting a series of

actions in a temporal and spatial frame evoked the “narrative

method” that Eliot rejected (…) Abstraction too only proved

possible to a very limited degree. (1999, 131-2)

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Innes suggests that theatre forms an institution in a way publishing houses

do not, existing within a pre-set frame for performance. Even when

performed in alternative spaces away from conventional stages, the nature

of actor-audience relationships “automatically becomes interpreted in

conventional forms” (1999, 131). Innes cites the Dadaists as an illustration

of this process, where an aggressively nonsensical assault on bourgeois

sensitivities became codified in the recognisable framework of cabaret

form.v For creators of the new television drama, association of their work

with theatrical values (such as the sense of spontaneous performance being

relayed to the audience) would limit their recognition as original

autonomous artists, hence Kennedy Martin’s wish to separate television

drama from all forms of theatricality, not only linear naturalism.

This modernist self-reflexivity Moi identifies informs other writers’ critique

of Ibsen’s plays, and provides further support to the view of Ibsen as

dramatist in the Kennedy Martin mode, whose plays were inherently suited

for modernist television interpretation. Frederick J. Marker and Lise-Lone

Marker (1989) consider The Wild Duck in its original theatrical context,

arguing that the play presented many new challenges to its original

directors, performers, and audiences; an “acute theatrical irony (the subtle

mingling of comedy and seriousness in word, action and visual image), the

far greater complexity of its character inter-relationships, and its deliberate

diffuseness of focus all contributed to a performance challenge” greater than

that presented by any other play of the period (127). Audiences’ imaginative

involvement was presented with a new challenge by “this work’s

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multiplicity of focus and its dynamic combination and juxtaposition of

moods and impressions” (1989, 127). This imaginative effort of having to

process associations and suggestions into a meaningful whole led to a new,

more subjective, form of audience involvement, where spectators not only

witnessed a play but actively participated in its emergence and assembly.

To describe the effect of Ibsen’s dramaturgy, Marker and Marker quote

from a modernist filmmaker, citing Sergei Eisenstein’s 1942 discussion of

the theory of montage:

The image planned by author, director and actor is concretized by

them in separate representational elements, and is assembled – again

and finally – in the spectator’s perception. (1999, 127)

This is precisely the same effect advocated by Kennedy Martin in his call

for a move away from the ‘nat’ use of linear time, giving credence to Moi’s

view that Ibsen’s realist art carries within it modernist perceptions of reality.

In its mobility of focus, shifting moods and tempos, and multiplicity of

voices and registers, The Wild Duck held the ability to dynamise and agitate

audiences’ subjective responses. This is the effect that Kennedy Martin

hoped for the modernist new television drama, far more demanding upon

the viewer than the verbal storytelling and static images he saw as the

inevitable result of naturalist television drama.

13

Ibsen adaptations on BBC Television

Writing in 1957, Michael Barry, the head of BBC Television drama could

report that, “During the twenty-one years of BBC Television Drama there

have been ten productions of nine plays by Ibsen and today this author has a

nation-wide popularity” (1957, 3). These television productions stimulated

an interest in the dramatic canon not previously known in Britain and

attracted a much larger audience for Ibsen’s work than it had previously

known in theatrical production, Barry claimed. This sense of Ibsen’s

suitability for television adaptation in Britain lasted for over forty years,

with 40 separate productions of his plays made and broadcast by the BBC

and ITV between 1947 and 1993. The range of plays attempted during this

period is remarkable, with all twelve late plays produced at least once, as

well as one production of Brand (BBC, 1959) and two of Peer Gynt (BBC

1954, 1972).vi

The survival of three BBC Ibsen productions made in quick succession

over three years from 1971-4, presents an opportunity to reappraise

Kennedy Martin’s dismissal of naturalism and television adaptation of the

naturalist stage play. Was Ibsen’s storytelling made to seem conventionally

linear and verbal through television adaptation? Could studio production of

these plays ever deviate from the model of the camera following dialogue

around the room that Kennedy Martin perceived? If any attempt was made

to break from this pattern, what effect did it have upon audiences? Were

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productions of Ibsen plays closer Kennedy Martin’s inherently untelevisual

outside broadcast relays, or the disorientating experience for theatre

audiences suggested by Marker and Marker?

The Lady from the Sea (BBC2, 5 March 1974, dir. Basil Coleman)vii

Basil Coleman’sviii 1974 production of The Lady from the Sea is the closest

of the three adaptations to the conventional naturalist style decried by

Kennedy Martin. The production is also highly faithful to the play’s

theatrical origins, replicating proscenium arch blocking and realistic set

design within the television studio.

Writing about the live American “method school” television plays of the

1950s, Caughie (2000) suggests that;

the very ‘limitations’ of the studio - the narrow field, the constricted

sets, the lack of fluidity in the camera – gave power to the focus on

acting and character. (…) [This smallness of scale, at its best] was a

style of drama which began to discover what might be specifically

dramatic about live television, a style which sought to combine the

immediacy of theatre with the intimacy of close-up film (73).

Although Lady from the Sea was pre-recorded, and its exterior setting was

not particularly constricted, its static directorial style, emphasis upon closely

15

observed performances, and narrative and characterisation revealed through

the spoken word can be said to belong in this tradition.

Coleman’s production always attempts verisimilitude of design, more

difficult in exteriors than interiors in a videotaped studio production,

especially in Act Three’s mountain pathway setting. This scenery attracted

negative commentary in the internal BBC Audience Research Report,

condemned as “‘stagey’ and unreal” in contrast to the play’s one interior set,

thought to have “created just the right ‘crowded and stuffy’ atmosphere one

associated with the period” (BBC WAC VR/74/161).ix It is questionable

whether (short of expensive location filming) this problematic artificiality

could have been resolved in a production that recreated the play in a realistic

setting, supporting Kennedy Martin’s view of naturalism’s unsuitability for

the television camera’s objective photography.

Coleman’s theatrical technique in Lady from the Sea is marked by stasis,

avoiding swooping camera movements or rapid mixing. Dialogue is spoken

clearly and listened to intently; there are no claustrophobically intense

close-ups. Performance style is muted, without demonstrative gestures or

physical actions. This does not mean that Coleman’s less innovative

approach necessarily serves play or actors badly. A positive interpretation of

Lady from the Sea’s acting style is that it is not dictated by directorial

approach, Coleman’s undemonstrative style serving to record actors’

performances.x

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This style favours mid-shots and long takes that do not particularly fit the

description of camera following dialogue like an attentive stranger.

Character interaction is often shown within a wider frame, holding

performers in fixed positions, rather than through contrapuntal editing of

speech and response. This holding of shots is most pronounced during Act

One’s important retrospective scene, where Lyngstrand recounts meeting

the Stranger (an outsider to whom Ellida feels married) to Arnholm and

Ellida. Coleman relocates this in a summerhouse, a more intimate location

for private conversation than Ibsen’s specified arbour. The scene is initially

shot through windowpanes, with shadows of the roof across Arnholm and

Ellida’s faces and, once Lyngstrand enters and tells the story, shown

through the doorway.xi A grouping is established of Lyngstrand’s face in

profile at the bottom left of frame, Ellida sat at on end of a bench by the

doorway listening intently to Lyngstrand on the right, and Arnholm sat at

the other end in mid-shot at the top centre. Thus established, the shot (rather

than fleeting close-ups) becomes the foundation of viewer understanding.

The scene’s prolonged nature allows viewers to turn their attention and

consideration to the reactions of each character in a sequence, and at a rate,

not necessarily dictated by the director.

This approach expects that viewers of the scene will pay close attention to

verbal delivery and inflections, especially as characters avoid eye contact

during the exchange. The resulting stillness makes watching the scene close

to the experience of viewing a theatrical performance, requiring spoken

word and acting to give Lyngstand’s story resonance, rather than a

17

particular response being dictated through directorial choice of shots and

camera movement. This is a textbook illustration of naturalist reliance upon

word over image, as perceived by Kennedy Martin.

On several occasions gatherings of characters are presented standing in a

straight line in tableau, giving credence to the production’s perceived

‘staginess’. This is particularly marked at the end, where all the play’s

united couples are shown in a conclusive still image resembling a theatrical

curtain line. An advantage of Coleman’s undemonstrative style is that, on

the one occasion where the pattern is broken away from, a sense of surprise

is created by the variation of technique. Upon the Stranger’s long-awaited

appearance in Act Three, the viewer is shown Ellida (crouched over a

stagnant garden pond) from the Stranger’s point of view, heightening

tension and curiosity built-up as to the his appearance, giving credibility to

Ellida’s faith in his return.

Apart from this moment, Coleman’s production runs to a consistent rhythm,

never noticeably speeding up. This steady pace and approach loses some of

Ibsen’s differentiation of mood and tone between alternating potentially

tragic scenes with Ellida and ironic scenes of comic romance featuring her

stepdaughters and their suitors.

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Audience reaction to this static style was unenthusiastic. The Research

Report relates complaints of a “heavy going” production with a “slow start”

that prompted 45% of the audience to switch off before the end.xii Compilers

attributed this dissatisfaction to discontent with Ibsen’s original play,

suggesting that Coleman’s approach to adaptation was not seen as itself

inappropriate. The report cites that “boredom with the play itself apparently

caused a number of those reporting to view the acting and production with a

somewhat jaundiced eye, the former being described as ‘stiff and wooden’”

(BBC WAC VR/74/161). The survey reported general hostility towards

Ibsen’s dramaturgy: “so much of his writing was obscure and symbolic that

they were not always sure what he was saying,xiii and there was a ‘coldness’

about his plays which they found somewhat repellent”.

Although a proportion of every BBC Ibsen audience surveyed during this

period expressed similar views, and Lady from the Sea’s very small

audience led any view expressed to bear disproportionate weight, the way

Ibsen’s symbolism is structured in this particular play may have provoked

complaints of obscurity and coldness. Symbolism is located more evenly

within the two other plays considered here. The Wild Duck is watermarked

throughout by the governing motif of the duck itself, carrying different

resonances for each character, a living creature depicted in the extra-textual

attic menagerie setting in Bridges’ production, and a symbol audience are

primed to consider from the outset by the title.xiv Ideas symbolic of the will

to live and die are inherent to Hedda Gabler’s plotting and, in the case of

the pistols, depicted at points during the play.

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Lady from the Sea’s slow, verbal, exposition made the first two acts

problematic for visual television adaptation, with the image of the Stranger

developed through speech a long time before the character’s eventual

appearance. The problem of the Stranger only existing through telling and

not showing for much of the play may have been exacerbated by Coleman’s

unobtrusive style and interpretation, alienating a large proportion of the

audience, supporting Kennedy Martin’s assertion of retrospective verbal

narrative’s unsuitability for television. By the play’s end the idea of the

Stranger becomes one of Ibsen’s least obscure or cold symbolic devices; not

obscure because actually physically manifested on stage, serving a clear

narrative purpose; and not cold because his appearance and rejection causes

an unexpectedly happy resolution. But the nature of Ibsen’s slow-building

narrative and Coleman’s patient, undemonstrative, directorial style left

much of the adaptation’s audience associating the play with the adverse

qualities of obscurity and coldness.

Coleman’s uniformity of style may have resulted in much of the play’s

substantial comedy being unapparent to the audience. A further reason may

be the lack of communal engagement that theatre audiences would

experience, where noticeable responses of amusement or surprise in sections

of the audience can be picked up on and added to by others. It is hard to see

how television adaptation could circumvent this, supporting Kennedy

Martin’s view of the two mediums’ incompatibility.

20

Play of the Month: Hedda Gabler (BBC1, 20 October 1972, dir. Waris

Hussein)xv

Waris Hussein’sxvi direction of Hedda Gabler exemplifies Kennedy

Martin’s understanding of ‘nat’ style: the camera follows the dialogue’s lead

around the rooms of the Tesman house, and character is revealed

subjectively through large intimate close-ups. Yet this production’s effect

upon viewer empathy and imagination achieves greater complexity than in

Kennedy Martin’s model.

Törnqvist (1999) notes that Hedda contains Ibsen’s most detailed stage

directions, included largely for the benefit of the original published text’s

readers, rather than the eventual performance text’s spectators. A theatrical

audience would be unable to see such details as Hedda’s “steel-grey” eyes

or Mrs Elvsted’s “light blue, large and somewhat prominent” ones (66),

whilst readers of the printed text might be able to associate the steel of

Hedda’s eyes with her pistols. While Hussein did not follow details about

eye colour to the letter, certain directions concerning facial expression, such

as Hedda smiling “almost imperceptibly” (Ibsen 1995, 264) could be more

fully appreciated through a television production’s close-up style than by

theatrical audiences.

21

Ibsen’s extremely precise directions as to when and where characters sit,

rise and gesture to each other are closely followed. These directions retain

their precision (in indicating how characters position themselves and

respond to each other) when magnified by being seen much closer than

possible for theatrical audiences, but the proximity also makes watching

these characters a more tactile experience than in the other adaptations. This

closeness applies as much aurally as visually: a large part of the

uncomfortable intimacy achieved in the scene of Hedda and Lovborg

talking to each other (while ostensibly looking at a photograph album while

Tesman and Brack drink together) is because the viewer is privy to a

“softly” (1995, 289) spoken conversation. Janet Suzman and Tom Bell

perform this too quietly to be audible in a theatre auditorium, making

realization of sotto voce whispering less of a well-worn convention, and

closer to the reality of how people speak when they do not want to be

noticed or overheard.

Hussein’s close-up style can be an uncomfortable experience for the

viewer. The use of single camera close-up shots (that follow the action of

dialogue by shifting focus as performers move around) induces a sense of

being in the room, looking over the characters’ shoulders. The most extreme

example occurs at the end of Act Two when Hedda is alone with an anxious

Mrs Elvsted, whom she forcibly induces to stay and take tea with her.

Ibsen’s directions for this scene state that Hedda “clasps” Elvsted

“passionately” and “drags” her “almost forcibly towards the open doorway”

(1995, 299). Elvsted’s alarm is shown in her lines, “Let me go! Let me go!

22

You frighten me, Hedda!” Hussein’s realization of this scene shows Hedda

violently spinning Elvsted around and pulling at her hair, shot in close-up.

The effect of this proximity makes the action seem un-choreographed and

sudden; both performers veer out of shot, meaning that the viewer has to

concentrate on the screen to follow the characters’ reactions, making the

camera movement that follows the performers appear unplanned. This

spontaneous impression has a different effect to that of Kennedy Martin’s

attentive stranger following conversation in the room. That style,

characterised as two- and three-shots that slavishly follow dialogue and

reaction, is more sedate than Hussein’s mobile effect. Where Kennedy

Martin’s implied bystander would be sat or stood in a fixed position in the

room, moving their head to observe speakers and listeners, an eyewitness in

the camera’s position in Hussein’s adaptation would be physically following

characters, picking up gestures and inflections that do not always tally with

the spoken dialogue. This increased mobility and closeness also gives

priority to spontaneity and ‘liveness’ of performance: Hedda and Elvsted

pushing each other out of shot is not a premeditated choreographic act, but

emphasises the characters’ changing status within the play.

This technique magnifies the effect of small, tactile, movements and

gestures that would be too small for a theatre audience to notice, such as

Hedda’s disdainful flicking of flowers presented to her by Elvsted. Hedda’s

archly dismissive disposal of cigarette butts is also accentuated by the use of

close-up, conveying a certain bored, aloof, quality. When such expressive

close-up gestures are combined with the use of dangerous properties, the

23

effect is emphatic. When Hedda shoots at the judge through the window the

image is shown in a close-up of Hedda holding both pistols and laughing,

demonstrating her ease in handling, and pleasure in using, the weapons. In

Alex Segal’s 1962 BBC production this scene is in long shot, with the

viewer’s understanding is concentrated upon the objective action of

shooting rather than subjective consideration of Hedda’s motivation. In

Segal’s version the viewer learns that Hedda is the type of woman who

shoots out of the window to attract visitors’ attention, but is only given

Ibsen’s dialogue to try to understand why she might do so, whereas

Hussein’s focus upon performer rather than action provides greater insight

into how Hedda might feel about what she is doing. This physicality and

gesture of performance, and the way that close, mobile, camera-work frames

it, illuminates how characters perceive and present themselves, as opposed

to showing how they respond to each other.

The naturalist television camera style Kennedy Martin outlined, that

attempts to make the viewer achieve subjective understanding of character,

derived from classical Hollywood cinema (1964, 25). By contrast, the effect

Hussein achieves through close-ups, often depicting characters midway

through performing actions and revealed as part of a mobile shot, works

objectively upon the viewer. Insight gained into Hedda’s boredom

encourages objective understanding into her psychological motivation, as

opposed to subjective empathy, as was created by cinematic close-ups of

Ingrid Bergman’s face and non-diegetic incidental music in Segal’s 1962

version.

24

The impartial response encouraged by this objectivity is intensified by the

production’s blunt and stylized performances. Hedda’s concerns are

represented by a series of skittish movements that recur when certain

aspects of her life are referred to. Whenever pregnancy is mentioned she

starts to gag nauseously and whenever placed under particular stress she sits

in a rocking chair that she rocks vigorously, an action always shown in

profile. The most extremely stylized performance in the play is Ian

McKellen’s Tesman, who is made a physically unattractive, almost

repulsive, man. McKellen gives Tesman such grotesque characteristics as

hunched back, clubfoot, squint and uncomprehending beetle brow, a voice

that stammers and barks, and the unpleasant habit of persistent pipe

sucking.xvii Although McKellen’s is the most distinctively physically

exaggerated of the five main characters, this stylized pitch is shared by all

the major performers: Janet Suzman’s movement and intonation as Hedda is

realized in constant restless actions, and slightly mocking relish in her vocal

tone; Jane Asher’s Elvsted has extremely stiff and imposing movements;

and Tom Bell’s Lovborg continually stares into the eyes of other characters,

and speaks very slowly and deliberately; all four parts are realized through

heightened physicality and gestures. The effect of such stylized performance

is magnified by the objectivity of the television camera perceived by

Kennedy Martin, which picks up each detail of a body or object with the

same focus, discouraging empathy with such grotesquely depicted

characters. When shown in close-up such stylized performances have the

effect of encouraging the audience to understand characters’ motivations,

and how they gain or lose power and status through their words and actions.

25

Any empathy that the audience feels is gained through objective intellectual

understanding of behaviour and circumstance, rather than the cinematic

subjectivity Kennedy Martin saw in the ‘nat’ close-up.

Viewer reaction was highly favourable. The more specific evaluation

system briefly used in the early 1970s suggests that the interpretation

succeeded in engaging its audience’s attention and interest:

Thoroughly entertaining 48% 21% 17% 10% 4% Very boring

Very easy to understand 46% 31% 13% 7% 3% Very difficult to

understand

Excellent plot 46% 27% 15% 7% 5% Poor plot

Definitely out-of-the-ordinary 44% 29% 15% 6% 6% Just

ordinary

(BBC WAC VR/72/617)

It was felt that the play adapted particularly well for television, one viewer

reporting that, “Ibsen’s essentially domestic dramas are especially suited to

the domestic medium”. Particular praise was given to Janet Suzman who, in

a drama that offered “plenty of scope for spectacular acting”, was found to

be “most convincing. HG really looked as if she would make people dance

to her tune”, with viewers commending her performance over Bergman ten

years before, who had “failed to understand the depth of passion. Responses

suggest that Hussein’s mobile camera style succeeded in following Ibsen’s

precise instructions as to how the space of the room dictated drama that

26

occurred within it, “scenery and other details of production had very

successfully conveyed the sombre mood of the play and an authentic sense

of period, costumes in particular being noted as not only effective but very

attractive”, creating suitable conditions for emotionally-charged

performances that viewers accepted as compelling and plausible.

Hussein’s production is textually faithful to Ibsen’s sequencing and features

no significant omissions. One extra-textual scene is added during the

opening credits, showing Tesman asleep in bed and Hedda getting up,

followed by shots of Hedda walking through, and sitting in, empty rooms of

her house, shown through the panels of exterior windows. The addition of

these alters the viewer’s initial perspective of Hedda from that given by

Ibsen in stage productions. In Ibsen’s text, Hedda is not introduced for

several minutes, but frequently discussed by other characters. This device

allows intrigue about the offstage Hedda, and curiosity to see her, to grow.

When Hedda does eventually appear, Ibsen’s stage directions indicate an

imposing figure, described as, “Distinguished, [with an] aristocratic face

and figure. Her complexion is pale and opalescent. Her eyes are steel-grey,

with an expression of cold, calm serenity” (1995, 251-2), holding out her

hand regally to Tesman’s aunt. By showing Hedda (literally) with her hair

down prior to this entrance, Hussein adds an additional context to that

written by Ibsen. While dialogue preceding her entrance makes Hedda out

to be a woman of great style and fearsome exactitude, the figure seen in the

early morning is vulnerable and solitary, escaping from her husband to be

alone in an unfamiliar home. This extra-textual sequence introduces Hedda

27

in such a way as to place the viewer in the position of a spy. Her face is

never seen clearly in this sequence, her solitary actions of walking, sitting,

and drinking convey no obvious motivation in themselves, and the shutters

and bars of the windows through which Hedda is seen present a literal

barrier to building up any identification with her. Although Hedda is shown

in private, the effect for the viewer is unsettlingly voyeuristic and objective,

providing understanding of circumstances rather than insight into inner

life.xviii

This quickly intercut wordless sequence of Hedda is an occasion where

Hussein’s production resembles Kennedy Martin’s envisaged new drama,

rather than conventional ‘nat’ form. It disrupts linear time through

concentrating several hours of a morning into a minute, depends upon the

primacy of the image above the word, and presents character objectively

through voyeuristic depiction of Hedda as observed through windows. Critic

Sean Day-Lewis saw the different narrative style created by this extra-

textual scene as counterproductive (1972). While commending Hussein’s

“orthodox and competent account”, Day-Lewis described the scene in terms

of physical characterisation:

Fussy George Tesman, Hedda’s husband of six months was

observed to be snoring in his single bed while she prowled restlessly

beside the window, like some well-bred racehorse frustrated by the

walls of the marriage trap. This wordless scene told all, and because

it told all, nullified a large part of the play, which revealed the

28

characters in action gradually and with such a cunning sense of

timing. (13)

This criticism throws into question the suitability of most television

adaptations: when closely-observed televisual images could render much

stage exposition unnecessary, the implication is that either the adaptation

should be rigorously faithful to text in framing the source narrative in a

theatrical style, or should move further away from textual fidelity to replace

words with telling images, as proposed by Kennedy Martin.

Play of the Month: The Wild Duck (BBC1, 21 March 1971, dir. Alan

Bridges)

Of the three adaptations, Alan Bridges’xix 1971 production of The Wild

Duck deviates most from ‘nat’ style. Through downplaying the primacy of

dialogue, its awareness of sound editing, reconstitution of the source play’s

time and settings, and camera mobility, it shares many affinities with

Kennedy Martin’s advocated new drama and, through its adoption of the

studio as location for cinematic experimentation in technique, can be read as

a moment of change in the historical development of the theatrical

adaptation. In this section these techniques and innovations in editing

technology that made them practicable in the studio are discussed,

attempting to establish to what extent they were innate within Ibsen’s play,

29

as suggested by Marker and Marker’s (1989) citation of Eisenstein. The

(atypically) polarised audience response is also examined, attempting to

discern what elements of the theatrically realised play might have been lost

in the process of adaptation.

Bridges’ approach to narrative in The Wild Duck appears defined by new

possibilities created by changes in the pattern of studio recording in the

early 1970s, a period which saw rehearse-recording of television drama

introduced at the BBC. Previously, recording a full-length play (which

usually required three full studio days) generally consisted of two and a half

days of detailed camera rehearsals, followed by a few hours actual recording

during the final evening.xx Material recorded tended to be performed ‘as

live’ in complete, lengthy scenes normally only interrupted because of

technical errors or serious mistakes by performers that would adversely

affect the eventual programme.xxi Rudimentary editing technology, and

limited time and resources available for post-production, discouraged

directors from planning elaborate cuts or location changes not immediately

achievable through live mixing of shots from multiple cameras during

studio recording. This meant that dramas were often filmed sequentially

making stage plays, designed for live continuous performance, particularly

suitable for production.

The Wild Duck’s conflation of Acts One and Two demonstrates the

narrative possibilities created by the new technology. Scenes of Hjalmar at

30

Hakon Werle’s party are intercut with scenes of his wife and daughter

awaiting his return home. Showing these events occurring simultaneously

creates a contrasting rhythm; the crowded frame and chaotic chattering

soundtrack of the dinner party alternates starkly with the quiet industry of

the mother and daughter. This conflation of two time schemes edited into

one is an example of the more fluid sense of linear time Kennedy Martin

hoped for (1964, 28).

The two settings’ colour schemes are starkly differentiated. Although the

night time setting means that both locations are dark and dingy, the Werle

household has an orange tinge of artificial candle and lamplight while the

frugal Ekdal house is lit by a solitary lamp and given a prevailing scheme of

green and grey. The intertwined narrative places greater immediate

importance upon Hjalmar than in Ibsen’s text, showing both his pained

ineffectuality in action and importance to others dependent upon him. The

integrated use of contrasting lighting, sound and editing exemplifies the type

of production Kennedy Martin called for, inextricably linking the three

elements to serve a dramatic purpose (1964, 32) to an extent not apparent in

The Lady from the Sea or Hedda Gabler.

This more fluid editing and cutting expands The Wild Duck beyond the

confines practicable in most theatres. Ibsen’s script is set in two rooms:

Hakon’s “expensively and comfortably furnished” study (1994, 117), and

Hjalmar’s attic studio. Bridges’ expansive production adds supplementary

rooms to both houses. In addition to Werle’s study, the viewer is now shown

31

scenes in his hallway, dining room and billiard room; while Hjalmar’s

studio is augmented by kitchen, guest bedroom, boxroom, Old Ekdal’s

quarters and loft. These additional sets can be divided into two separate

categories, each serving a different purpose; settings for extra-textual scenes

not shown in Ibsen’s original play, and for relocated encounters and

incidents within the text.

The most striking use of extra-textual additions occurs in the production’s

initial minutes. In Ibsen’s text, the play starts with conversation between a

servant and waiter describing events (heard but not seen by the theatrical

audience) at Hakon’s dinner party:

From the dining room can be heard the buzz of conversation and

laughter. Someone taps a knife against a glass; silence; a toast is

proposed, cries of ‘Bravo!’; then the buzz of conversation begins

again. (1994, 117)

In Bridges’ television version the audience sees the dinner party happen.

Although soundtracked by excited chatter, the conversation’s inaudibility

means that the scene includes no dialogue additional to Ibsen’s text. The

new scene’s emphasis is placed upon introducing Hjalmar, showing his

awkwardness in social situations. A series of mobile shots around the dining

table present the engaged and active faces of guests before the camera turns

to show Hjalmar, much less at ease than other diners, failing to attract

attention by speaking too late to join in conversation. The scene’s narrative

emphasis is altered away from the actual spoken word, and towards

32

impressionistic understanding of the collective mood and Hjalmar’s failure

to fit into expected rituals of social intercourse.

Bridges’ visual grammar for these initial scenes noticeably differs from that

subsequently used in Acts Two to Five. There is little use of close–up and

shots are either mobile (moving across rooms and through crowds) or

swiftly mixed together. Both party and household scenes are marked by

chaotic, disrupted, rhythm. Characters at the party constantly rise up mid-

conversation and go somewhere and do something else. Similarly, in Gina

and Hedvig’s quieter, more muted, domestic scenes both rise from their

sewing to visit and fetch items from boxroom and kitchen. A contrast

between the social and private spaces of party and home is established, but

editing and constant movement makes events in both locations nervous and

fidgety. This technique emphasises Hjalmar’s catalysing moment of

humiliation, when Hakon leads his dissolute old father through the party, in

a way unachievable on a proscenium stage: the sight of the embarrassing old

man shepherded and stumbling through the crowded room is shown from

Hjalmar’s point of view, over the shoulders of other guests. These scenes,

observing how characters operate in social situations, create an objective

effect upon the viewer, rather than the subjective sense of interiority

achieved through close-up and character revealed through verbal

articulation. The chaotic sense of disruptive rhythm and motion is paralleled

by the party scene’s use of noise supplementary to dialogue. At no point

does the background party chatter cease during these sequences, Gregers

33

and Hjalmar’s initial exchanges spoken up over a continual backdrop of

noise.

Having established a distinctive style and tempo, moments when Bridges

relaxes this rhythm emphasise crucial points in the narrative. Once Hjalmar

returns home close-ups start to appear, dialogue becomes less frenetically

paced, and characters appear more at ease in each other’s company and

prepared to listen to each other undisrupted domestic quiet than in the

preceding party scenes.xxii This culminates in a unique moment of grace that

indicates how the Ekdals have functioned as a family up to this point;

Hjalmar plays his flute (“with spirit, in a slow and mournful tempo, and

sensitively”, Ibsen 1994, 144) for Gina and Hedvig;xxiii during which

Hjalmar stands in the centre of frame, with Gina working at the table to the

right, and Hedvig rocking in a chair in time to the music on the left.

An audacious and prolonged camera movement accompanies this moment;

initially moving outwards to show the grouping within the entire space of

the room, then slowly zooming inwards towards Hedvig’s delighted face in

close-up, then unexpectedly moving upwards towards the attic where the

wild duck is kept. This movement is abruptly interrupted by Gregers’s

fateful knock at the door, the sound that leads to the rest of the play’s

(eventually tragic) action, and the image cuts back to the disrupted grouping

of all three family members. This wide shot of the entire room is far from

Kennedy Martin’s conventional ‘nat’ presentation of relationships,

34

conveying important insight into the Ekdal family without verbal

communication, but through grouping of characters and music. The

transformation from whole room to close-up to attic through camera

mobility makes the scene’s realisation unlike The Lady from the Sea’s

replicated stage conditions.

After this peaceful moment, the tragic series of events set in motion by

Gregers’ truth-telling exchanges with Hjalmar are reflected by Bridges’

decision to make subsequent Ekdal household scenes noisy and

uncomfortable. Sounds of running taps or scraped plates make dialogue hard

to pick up during kitchen scenes (not a location in Ibsen’s text). Hedvig’s

distressed conversation with Gina (the last moments she is seen in Ibsen’s

text) is heard over the sound of Hjalmar banging chests and cases as he

packs to leave home.

A striking moment of disrupted rhythm occurs during Hjalmar and Gina’s

Act Four argument. In Ibsen’s text, this confrontation’s dialogue alternates

between Hjalmar and Gina, but in Bridges’ production the dialogue

overlaps, spoken by both simultaneously. This device creates the symphonic

effect of two voices speaking at the same time (with simultaneous speech

halving the amount of time which the argument takes) but also means that

many listeners can only pick out, at most, half of the words spoken. This

rebalances the scene’s emphasis: giving greater impressionistic sense of

characters’ heightened emotions, but diminishing ability to follow

35

exposition contained within the dialogue, changing the narrative from verbal

to visual and aural.

Similar unconventional vocal delivery in Bridges’ production is found in

the alcoholic Old Ekdal’s dialogue, entirely mumbled and un-enunciated in

a manner that would be inaudible in most theatre auditoria, without

microphones or the audience being close enough to lip-read. The

production’s performance styles are generally more muted than those a

theatre audience, without the magnifying potential of television

microphones and cameras, might expect to encounter. Rosemary Leach’s

Gina, in particular, is very undemonstrative, presenting watchful stoicism

through quiet speech and very still physical presence, in contrast to Jenny

Agutter’s gawky and enthusiastic adolescent movement as Hedvig, and the

anxiety and inability to concentrate conveyed by Denholm Elliott’s

exasperated movement as Hjalmar.

Audience response to the programme’s muted and chaotic aesthetic was

mixed. “(V)iewers were asked to rate the broadcast on four dimensions

defined by pairs of adjectives or descriptive phrases”:

Absorbing 29% 20% 11% 11% 29% Didn’t hold attention

Entertaining 25% 20% 17% 13% 25% Boring

Stimulating 23% 21% 16% 13% 27% Made no impact

36

Convincing 34% 14% 22% 13% 17% Unconvincing

(BBC WAC VR/71/68)

These statistics show polarised opinion to a much greater degree than

Hussein’s Hedda Gabler.xxiv Bridges’ approach provoked either great

attention or stimulation in viewers, or great irritation, with neutral responses

comparatively rare, suggesting success by Kennedy Martin’s criteria,

agitating an engaged response, rather than neutral acceptance. Many viewers

reported finding the production generally convincing, but a substantial

percentage found it lacking impact, boring, and unable to hold their

attention. The report’s compilers sought to establish whether this hostility

was towards Ibsen’s original play or the television production, prefacing

their précis of hostile responses, “The usual recoil from anything

approaching morbidity was obviously a factor that influenced many

reporting viewers to a considerable extent”.

The compilers’ report conveys frustration with those parts of the audience

unfamiliar with theatrical narrative conventions: “many supplying evidence

were either too impatient or unable to appreciate that the impact of the final

tragedy depends upon the gradual build-up of the plot and characterisation”.

This argument places the onus of blame upon viewers for their perceived

lack of understanding, rather than upon faults in either the production or

Ibsen’s source play. This assumption contrasts with Kennedy Martin’s

37

belief in the inherent unsuitability of theatrical drama for television

adaptation. Notes that others “were relieved to find that ‘this classic piece’

was within their grasp, and though undoubtedly gloomy, had proved less

abstruse and esoteric than they had feared” counter this section of the

audience’s lack of appreciation, suggesting that stage plays of this period

could be presented to unfamiliar and sceptical audiences with positive

results.

Complaints about Hjalmar’s “selfishness and failure to understand the

feelings of his wife and daughter” developing at “a maddeningly slow pace”

might read as criticism of Ibsen’s narrative technique, but also as censure of

Bridges’ decision not to substantially cut much of the text in adapting the

play. It is hard to gauge whether displeasure expressed over “the amount of

‘exposition conversations’ (also described as “a clutter of ‘over dialogue’”)

in the early scenes” was the result of Ibsen’s dramatic technique, or because

Bridges’ disruptive style made this exposition hard to follow. The

preponderance of such exposition in initial scenes (provoking “doubts as to

whether anyone totally unfamiliar with the play would manage to sustain

interest”) suggests that transferring such theatrical dialogue to television

was seen as inherently problematic.

The report privileges insights provided by the minority of viewers already

familiar with the play; “one or two” of whom “ventured to say that ‘a

certain mysterious quality’ was enhanced in the transition to the TV screen”.

38

The chosen adjective “mysterious” to describe qualities of The Wild Duck

enhanced by adaptation suggests that viewers responded to two

complementary aspects of Bridges’ production. Firstly that the duck’s actual

depiction and characters’ responses to it, made allusive and poetic qualities

seem more concrete and fully-realised to audiences than previously: and

secondly that muted domestic performances, presented in lifelike disrupted

rhythms, made characters appear more realistic to these viewers than in the

theatre. Once convinced of the realism of the play’s characters and their

world, audiences were more prepared to accept that mysterious symbolist

and poetic elements could affect lifelike characters’ behaviour. One viewer

noticed the rearranging of material at the beginning of the play,

disapproving the greater expositional confusion this caused, reporting that,

“the start seemed bad, as the important opening scene which explains the

situation was inserted later”.xxv

Some of the audience saw Bridges’ techniques as anti-theatrical, with the

play’s point becoming lost in the process of adaptation, transforming The

Wild Duck into an avant-garde presentation disrespectful of the original text.

A Radio Times letter is headed “Ibsen in the Modern Way”:

Perhaps I lack the necessary brain or whatever quality is required to

understand a modern version of Ibsen’s The Wild Duck, but what

with all the actors speaking at once on several occasions I was

tempted to switch off. I know that the director is esteemed in TV

circles and will probably win an award, but to have treated words in

39

such a way ruined the play for me. This seems to be a modern trend,

and some people claim we do not communicate by words any more.

I do, and we do not all speak at once in our house, nor can I

remember Ibsen’s characters having done so – not when I read the

plays or last listened to them. P. S. Howe, Irchester,

Northamptonshire. (5 April 1971, 58)

This argument reads Bridges’ disrupted rhythms as themselves disrupting

Ibsen’s narrative coherence, with overlapping dialogue serving not to make

the production more realistic but self-consciously “modern” and obscure.

The techniques place greater emphasis on characters’ struggle for words;

when people decide to speak or not, how alcohol affects speech patterns,

and how people talk over each other; but insights into the process of

speaking also make the actual words spoken less audible. This view of the

adaptation precisely parallels Kennedy Martin’s call for a move away from

the primacy of verbal communication in verbal drama: as the letter states,

“some people claim we do not communicate by words anymore”. Script

editor Rosemary Hill’s reply to these criticisms in the Radio Times letters

page reflects Moi’s arguments for Ibsen’s modernism:

In transferring famous plays from another medium and another age

to the television screens of today, all of us are constantly concerned

that the immediacy and importance of a great play should not be too

greatly softened by ‘staginess’ in the wrong sense. Sometimes a

director or an adaptor may take extreme means to try to make a play

40

live for the new audience, and I think this was the case in The Wild

Duck. But the play was certainly alive and kicking, and as ‘modern’

as I am sure Ibsen intended. (5 April 1971, 58)

The Wild Duck’s disrupted rhythms were also questioned by Raymond

Williams in The Listener who saw moving away from single-room settings

as misunderstanding the metaphorical simplicity of depicting characters

stuck together in a single room (1971, 460). Williams saw Bridges’

production as less powerful than another adaptation of a single room

naturalist play shown in the same week, Arthur Miller’s The Price (NBC,

Hallmark Hall of Fame, 1971):

The importance of this trapped, static quality was brought out,

negatively, by the recent restless production of The Wild Duck

(BBC1). I have only recently been noticing, in television drama

(though it used to happen a lot on stage), how superficially many

directors understand movement. In one short speech an actor is often

made to run a kind of race against time: how many positions, chairs,

drinks, postures, rooms he can get through before the bloody words

run out. But whether standing still and feeling trapped is now

acceptable or not, is what Ibsen, in that period, and Miller, in The

Price, were writing: a precise experience in a precise rhythm. And

then the Miller production was very powerful, with the actors

allowed to be slow and involved – an opportunity they brilliantly

took. (1971, 460)

41

Williams sees Ibsen’s original text of The Wild Duck as containing precise

dramatic rhythm in itself, with Bridges’ additions serving as a directorial

nervous tic, diverting viewers’ attention away from situations experienced

by the play’s characters and towards techniques of those performers

enacting them. In this argument, mysterious impulses felt by characters are

rendered less convincing by disrupted domestic rhythms, with poetic

elements better realised through less mobile performances which display

more thoughtful and considered delivery of dialogue, such as in Coleman’s

production of The Lady from the Sea. Bridges does attempt such quieter

moments in his adaptation, but structures the production to alternate swift

and slow movements.xxvi Camera movement at the beginning of Act Three,

where Hjalmar abandons his work as characters constantly move between

studio, kitchen and attic, is initially chaotic, implicating the spectator as a

participant in the action as at a theatrical promenade performance. Then,

once Hjalmar disappears to the attic and leaves Hedvig to carry out his work

for him, her conversation with Gregers, with its mysterious references to

sacrifice, is depicted through quieter performances and less frenetic camera

movement.

It is questionable if the spatial awareness experienced by the theatrical

audience looking at a realistic set could be experienced by television

viewers, and Bridges’ adaptation goes some way beyond imitation or

replication of theatrical performance conditions. Bridges chose not to

recreate theatrical conditions in The Wild Duck, deciding instead to open up

the world of the play. Through doing this, the way that the play realised

42

verbally-posited ideas of enclosure and the hidden changed, making The

Wild Duck a more literal work. For Williams, this resulted in the play losing

some of its precision and metaphorical strength, while some of the BBC’s

reporting panel discovered a sense of concrete meaning in The Wild Duck

they may not have otherwise found. For both parties the process of

television adaptation, realised through Bridges’ modernist, non-‘nat’, style,

altered the play’s meaning.

Conclusion

Kennedy Martin (1964) saw naturalism as an anti-televisual form of

dramatic narrative and called for the creation of a new, modernist, television

drama in its place. The aspects of naturalism he saw as unsuitable for

television were; reliance upon conveying plot and characterisation through

spoken word as opposed to visual image; and dependence upon telling

stories within linear time. ‘Nat’ television drama attempted to depict

character subjectively through close-up technique derived from classical

Hollywood cinema, while Kennedy Martin argued that the television

camera’s undifferentiating focus would be better utilised attempting to

create objective characterisation.

43

A second strand of Kennedy Martin’s argument against ‘nat’ television

drama displays a wider antipathy towards the adoption of all forms of

theatricality, especially the adaptation of theatrical plays. For Kennedy

Martin, broadcasting stage plays on television could only be justified as an

exercise in relaying information about a separate, incompatible, art form,

made by Outside Broadcast units rather than television drama practitioners.

This scepticism about theatricality echoes the historical critical antipathy

towards theatre amongst the modernist movement, with mistrust of

traditional theatrical performance’s ‘liveness’ and textual basis integral to

both early twentieth century modernist thought and Kennedy Martin’s

clarion call for new forms of television drama.

Kennedy Martin’s characterisation of stage naturalism is based around a

reductive view that denies the elements of modernism contained within such

drama. Ibsen’s canonical naturalist stage plays are not exclusively

characterised by subjective psychological studies of character realised

through dialogue within a linear time frame, which Kennedy Martin’s

argument suggests. These plays also act to challenge the conception of the

world as defined by the spoken word and, by presenting multiple ways to

understand characterisation, agitate spectators’ perceptions of events and

character.

44

Each of the three case studies of Ibsen productions considered test to what

extent modernist elements could be accentuated through television

adaptation, and whether audiences responded in the subjective or objective

states set out by Kennedy Martin. By replicating theatrical staging and

blocking, and in its unobtrusive directorial style The Lady from the Sea most

closely matches the model of ‘nat’ drama. Hedda Gabler deviates from this

form to some extent. The intense closeness of Waris Hussein’s direction can

be read as breaking from stage convention, becoming closer to the ‘reading

text’ identified by Törnqvist. The close-up intimacy of performers cannot be

said to derive from the subjective classical Hollywood presentation of

character Kennedy Martin saw as unsuitable for television (adopted in the

1962 BBC version), but instead utilises the television camera’s cold

objectivity, as he wished for the new drama. Bridges’ production of The

Wild Duck is realised in a modernist style. The spoken word’s primacy is

undermined through overlapping dialogue, character is revealed visually and

aurally through disrupted routines, editing condenses time, and mobile

camera movement disorientate and agitate the viewer rather than follows

dialogue around the room.

The elements of production Hedda Gabler and The Wild Duck share with

the new drama advocated by Kennedy Martin question the purpose and

reasoning behind television adaptation. The relayed outside broadcasts of

stage plays seen by Kennedy Martin as televised theatre’s only valid form

would look nothing like Hedda Gabler or The Wild Duck. Day-Lewis’ view

of Hedda Gabler’s extra-textual opening sequence as invalidating much of

45

Ibsen’s subsequent Act One dialogue, or the loss of metatheatrical aspects

of the Ekdal homexxvii in Bridges’ extended setting of The Wild Duck,

suggest that whenever adaptation altered precise details of canonical

naturalist plays, the effects of stage dramaturgy would always be

reconstituted into something different upon the television audience. That

different something, however, need not have been the distortion of

theatricality, or the lack of confidence in televisuality, that Kennedy Martin

saw as being the inevitable result of television adaptation.

Acknowledgements

This article is one of the outcomes of the research project “The History of

Forgotten Television Drama in the UK”, funded by the Arts & Humanities

Research Council from 2013-16.

46

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Endnotes

49

i “Despite what everyone may say, naturalism is not a visual form” is an unpersuasive way to frame

an argument. Plays that depict work taking place on stage, from Gerhardt Hauptmann’s The

Weavers (1892) to David Storey’s The Contractor (1969), form examples of naturalist plays that are

visually led by a process occurring on stage in real time, where the verbally-realised dialogue is

secondary to the visual element of the physical action. Although such actions might have been

considered harder to realise convincingly on television than conversations between characters,

Caughie’s (2000) reading of the wordless and panoramic opening scene of a factory yard, realised

theatrically within the television studio, in a 1960 ITV/ ABC Armchair Theatre play (Lena, Oh my

Lena) suggests how the narrative of ‘nat’ drama might be visually-led.

ii This argument is more persuasive when applied to television technology of 1964 (with fewer

opportunities for postproduction and viewed on small screens with no opportunity for audiences to

record and re-watch programmes) than to that of the present day. See Jacobs’ conception of early

television as a medium of ‘relay’ (2000).

iii This point of view can be contested by Wheatley’s (2005) reading of Upstairs, Downstairs (ITV/

LWT 1971-75) as a drama that creates a visual and tactile understanding for the viewer through the

highly selective presentation of objects.

iv Moi (2006, 17-9) traces a history of academic mistrust of Ibsenite naturalism, with reference to

Erich Auerbach (1953), Eric Bentley (1953) and Raymond Williams (1961, 1969).

v Television drama, especially before the availability of the home video, was also mediated through

an institution, through being broadcast at a pre-set time to a communal audience, albeit one isolated

into small groups of individual viewers.

vi Details of these productions and their archival status can be found on the University of

Westminster Screen Plays Database (http://bufvc.ac.uk/screenplays/)

vii This version was the third (and, to date, final) production of The Lady from the Sea made for

British television. BBC Television had broadcast previous versions in 1953 (d. Harold Clayton) and

1958 (d. Michael Elliott). The 1953 production survives, one of the earliest television dramas to do

so.

viii Basil Coleman (1916-2013) started his career in opera, directing four Benjamin Britten premiers

between 1949-54. His initial BBC television productions were operas (including Billy Budd, 1966).

Later productions included As You Like It (BBC 1978) and a ten-part serialisation of Anna Karenina

(BBC 1977).

ix This perceived artifice is a recurring complaint amongst the audiences of adaptations of naturalist

plays made under studio conditions during this period. For example, Viewing Reports for Ibsen’s

When we Dead Awaken (BBC2, 1970) (BBC WAC VR/70/81) and Chekhov’s The Three Sisters

(BBC1, Play of the Month, 1970) (BBC WAC VR/70/35).

x At the NFT screening of The Lady from the Sea on 14 October 2006, I briefly talked to Basil

Coleman, who told me that Cedric Messina commissioned the production as a star vehicle for

Eileen Atkins.

xi Showing the scene through a windowpane (therefore implicating the viewer in the action of the

scene rather than merely presenting it to them) complicates Caughie’s (2000) characterization of the

boxed, immobile, camera style.

xii The Reaction Index for The Lady from the Sea was a low 46 (WAC VR/74/161).

xiii In contrast, the audience research report for The Wild Duck quoted viewers who had found a clear

meaning in the play that they could apply to their own lives: “although they did not usually care for

Ibsen, they had found this play unexpectedly arresting as a warning to people who are inclined to

interfere in the lives and affairs of others, especially, as one viewer pointed out ‘by way of easing

their own conscience’” (BBC WAC VR/71/68).

xiv In Bridges’ production, the opening and closing credits both play over shots of the actual duck in

the attic.

xv Hedda Gabler has been produced for British Television on a further five occasions; 1957 (ITV/

ATV, d. Lionel Harris) with Pamela Browne as Hedda; Alex Segal’s 1962 BBC production with

Ingrid Bergman; a Welsh language version (BBC Wales 1968); David Cunliffe’s 1981 version

starring Diana Rigg (ITV/ Yorkshire Televsion); and Deborah Warner’s 1993 BBC production

(with Fiona Shaw).

xvi Waris Hussein’s (b. 1938) television productions include the first Doctor Who serial, ‘An

Unearthly Child’ (BBC 1963), A Passage to India (BBC 1965), Shoulder to Shoulder (BBC 1974)

and Edward and Mrs. Simpson (ITV/ Thames 1978). He has also directed seven feature films.

xvii An action mockingly mimicked by Hedda to Tesman’s face in her final scene with Tesman in

this production.

xviii Similar brief scenes of Hedda alone occur in the spaces between stage acts in this production.

The effect of these sequences is slightly different to the initial one, as they are also included to give

a sense of the time that elapses between acts, and emulate the moments of reflection that a theatrical

audience would experience during blackouts and/or intervals. At certain points, these interludes

show Hedda at the piano. In Ibsen’s text Hedda only plays the piano immediately prior to her

suicide (“Suddenly she begins to play a frenzied dance medley”, 1995, 333). This moment of action

and its curtailment in Act Four is perhaps given more force in the television adaptation than it is on

the stage, because the viewer has been shown the sense of release that Hedda can gain through

playing the piano.

xix Alan Bridges’ (1927-2013) also directed Ibsen’s Ghosts for the Royal Shakespeare Company in

1967. His television productions included four plays by David Mercer and three by Dennis Potter.

He also directed nine feature films, including The Shooting Party (1985).

xx

For example, recording of the Play of the Month productions of Ghosts (1968) (BBC WAC

T5/1,434/1) and An Ideal Husband (1969) (BBC WAC T5/853/1) followed this three-day pattern.

xxi The recording notes for An Ideal Husband (1969) (BBC WAC T5/853/1) show a typical example

of reasons for interrupted recording; every restart necessitated by technical errors and fluffs, apart

from one request from a star performer.

xxii Although the actual dialogue in this scene is not so harmonious (1994, 139-44), concerning

Hjalmar’s unreliability as a father and breadwinner.

xxiii

Aside from a violin motif used over the opening and closing credits and to indicate the end and

beginning of scenes, the only music used in Bridges’ production occurs during the two occasions

specified by Ibsen; an offstage piano playing incongruous party music during Hakon and Gregers’

altercation, and when Hjalmar plays the flute.

xxiv The four criteria specifically chosen for evaluation were different for The Wild Duck and Hedda

Gabler. Both sets of viewers were asked to rate their productions level of entertainment, but the

Hedda audience were invited to analyse the play on the basis of how easy it was to understand, its

plot and whether it was out-of-the-ordinary. These questions indicate a greater concern with popular

dramatic television values, attracting an audience and keeping it watching, than those asked of Wild

Duck viewers, perhaps reflecting Hedda’s greater fame as a play, and interest in its Friday night

scheduling, unusual for a Play of the Month production.

xxv This perceived fault of Bridges’ production, that his realisation of Act One made the production

start slowly and incoherently, continues to affect some viewers, generations after the original

circumstances of broadcast. At the National Film Theatre presentation of 7 October 2006, audience

members complained of a play with an unsatisfactorily slow and gloomily-lit start, which then went

on to improve.

xxvi Bridges’ variations of pace appear to be supported by Ibsen’s text. The arrival of guests for

lunch at the end of Act Three, or the confusion that results from Hedvig’s death at the play’s

climax, imply a busy and chaotic performance style at these moments.

xxvii See Moi (2006, 251-2)